Roam, Roam Rome

There’s a bottle full of soul lying on the cold floor. I pick it up mornings to notice history. It is a whiff of autumn air in the summer, the reminder that we are all living shells of time and happenstance. Most hours of the day I spend contemplating words and playful sentences written loudly. The typewriter under my bed frees itself from chains and asks me to touch him. Thumbs rest on space as I finger four, three, two, escape.

The modern art of technology rest solely on the need of the public. Clones for pets and manufactured babies fill the nests news stories grow in. Sometimes they’re free-falling, pushed too early into reality. I’d take a stab at recognizing horrible ideas if I wasn’t a hypocrite; my mind talks trash every time I write in my journal. I never stop. It’s been three years since the last time I liked myself. The soul is dreary when malnourished like mine is. I’ve tried watering it, but it rejects. I want to be fed with miracles - hope.

The priest next door sends blessings through the walls. He asks only for the promise of heaven in return. I give him the finger. I could have thrown a fist, but thought only of laziness. Strange eyes follow me home, watch me carry my cigarette - safety blanket of the poor. I don’t say a word, but in the silence I taste tonight’s dreams.

I love you, man. Clearly, I have not learned your name, you are not John the Baptist. And I am not Ruth, or Rachel, or Rebecca. My eyes graze alive; my tears wash death so clean, he’s white. He doesn’t need to be a poet to know that colors mean everything.

War time is not that bad; it brought us art works of many colors. Neon lights scream open, open me up to the world; I am lost, cracking up at the irony of fame in a small town. My name is Rachida and the whole reason I am alive is because my parents made me, just to be sure they were alive.

For the first 2 years of my life, I couldn’t sleep. So, I learned the ways of the sun. At daybreak, I watched my own life slip into the grass and greet the morning dew. Their conversations constantly evaporating into nothingness; crawling towards the sun. I constantly sent messages to god and tucked them under the tiny seats of their paper planes. They flew into the clouds and mumbled distant phrases of adieu.

My words were dead before they entered this world or the next. God waited patiently for my letters, but eventually all ties were broken. The simplicity of the end was that there were no hard feelings. He told me that it’s okay to enjoy life as a hedonist because nothing survives. No matter how hard he’s tried.

Something worthwhile happens when you are free from god. He lets you run into the woods and gain experience. Choices are easier; friends come quicker; and love is naked and beautiful. Nothing has changed when it comes to the value of my life. It is rich, I can hear its pockets jingle in the night. I have walked for days without a break. i have watched the Buddhists mediate and the Christians pray. Most of the times I cannot decipher which is which until their crosses show.

Jesus knew that he was a failure when the first man was shot.

Good Morning

The mountain range upon your chest
awakens at a simple touch,
a few loose hands starving for the climb.
Last night I watched you
breathe sweet summer scents,
familiar peach cigars,
and friendly drug races.
No one dares ask
who’s sober
this morning.

Windows were opened,
a point of no return
for lost souls
in flight.
Wavering winds carried most
to safety -
mangled skulls and pavement.

I write them down:
nameless,
untitled lives.
I promise them a place
in this world
that has forgotten us all.

I ask how long I’ve been tied
to my own sentences
and I cannot answer with a straight face.

Too many have asked for a song
and received a poem;
and I am to blame.
You cannot write a song without a name.
I have tried, failed,
misery concealed in smoke rings
and calloused fingers.

Sobriety stops me from entering
the most inner workings
of your mind.

I watch you dribble dreams next to me,
jealous that you’re
always running your own way.

I am what they call a safe zone,
a limp wrist in a fist fight.

You are the mouth of wisdom,
too hungry to be saved from the devil’s hands.

Fell in Love with a Whore

Sad girl, smiling
at me
fully dressed
as we dance, naked
to the world
I am
awkward fingers
stumbling
upon the miracles
of her body
She rides the
beat,
an avalanche of
holy fuck
I fall in love with her
every time my
drunk legs miss
and I beg her
to catch me

She imagines
a backseat,
kitchen counter,
legs spread
I just want to hold her hand
But she's grinding
a message
and it's reached my head
and some other
places too
But the song's stopped
my arms are at my side
I am not welcome
Miracles last
as long
as pen strokes

And tonight she fucks him
as I sleep.
A beautiful mystery
unraveled,
only to fall -
clothes
and all.

Concentrated Thoughts - Freshly Squeezed

The windows are all closed – all five of them – because of the storm. I try to imagine my life without windows, opened or closed, and I cannot. I will not be put into a room without exit. But that is not important.

I have fueled the front of my life with alcohol and cigarettes but the back of it is dry. I have tried to get it wet, but most of the time I think too much. I lay with my back exposed and my tummy frowns; I lay with my front exposed and my back aches. I can never get things right.

Right now I am dreaming of a time, far from now, when I’m old. I’ll be ready to take orders out of an earpiece. I’ll be ready to follow them without hesitation. My hesitation will stumble upon itself and sigh. Of relief.

It is 10:28 and the windows are closed. They are closed for the sake of cleanliness – a dry room. I have tried to keep my doors open but there is too much to lose. I am at loss. But none of this should matter at all.

The soul matters. My own perception matters. Your own perception that I wish to know matters.

I once thought that I could get into the mind of a character, whether fictional or real, through books. I read so much that I’m afraid to stop in order to take it all in. No one takes it all in ever. The brain draws Xs on the parts of a story that it cannot remember.

I see Xs when I think of you. You probably see blue skies and a shit load of sunshine, but I cannot see the sunshine. It rains too much in my world.

The windows are closed and the storm is all over. I am not afraid of being dry. I am too much like the back of my life. I wish to place a cover over myself to keep out danger. I look at danger as something to hide from. Like all those diseases that we hear on the news. All the pesticides in foods. All the songs that end abruptly because they can.

Too many people are closed. I can barely hear their lives above mine. I want to hear your life louder. I want to feel it drumming. I want to listen to the music of your walk in this rain that has already stopped. Stop walking.

Maybe I am crazy about other people but I’m only crazy because no one can understand. No one can understand the workings of a lonely mind, the lonely hand that holds this lonely pen.

Frustration builds the character, creates more frustration.

Modern day novels give me nothing but death. I have become immune to the world. I want to be immune to sorrow so that I can live it without breathing heavily. I want not to be immune at all so that I can live it and feel it. No one feels someone else’s sorrow unless it is in the movies.

Count how many times you have cried over a death on the news. Write it down.

Count how many times you have cried over a death in a movie. Write it down.

Don’t tell anyone because they will call you shallow. The puddles in our minds hold more than those we release or speak aloud. This time I am speaking, speaking, speaking. Can you hear me?

Feel free to interject an idea. Inject me with your sorrow, your power, your voice. I cannot bear to be myself anymore. I cannot bear to breathe these breaths anymore. I am ashamed of the air. It has a pungent smell. Failure.

Nothing Cold Can Stay

The poet Robert Frost is buried in
the snowy fortress,
the chilly mountains,
the creeps
and pitter patters
of ice
hailing to the ground.
He is under
like holding breaths
and guiding hands
to places forbidden,
cold and lonely.
Frost is bowing in his grave
to ideas
carved in snow.
My angel is words -
a shovel trapped in the frozen
dirt. I'm digging
too deep,
below the wrong surface.
Frost is asking for relief,
so I grab into his world
and write his
goodbye.